Elven Eyes, Human Hands
by Caenis
Summary: The beauty of the Elves is perilous. A story of gifts given and desires withheld. Éowyn/Arwen, Aragorn/Legolas. SLASH, FEMSLASH.


**Elven Eyes, Human Hands**

  
  


_Héo naefre wacode daegréd  
Tó bisig mid daegeweorcum  
Ac oft héo wacode sunnanwanung  
Thonne nihtciele créap geond móras  
And on thaere hwile héo dréag thá losinga  
Ealra thinga the héo forléas  
Héo swá oft dréag hire sáwle sincende  
Héo ne cúthe hire heortan lust_

  


_He is blond, as I am blonde,_ she thinks. _My skin is paler, though perhaps not finer. And my sword — surely it is deadlier than his knives, swift though they be. Though perhaps my sword would not avail me against such fluid grace._ Yes, the Elf is beautiful, so lovely that Éowyn doubts she could ever touch him, and she wonders how Aragorn ever could. Did.

Éowyn thinks many things, as she walks the long march to Helm's Deep.

She thinks about Aragorn's answers to her questions. This unnamed Elf-maid who would abandon a king — perhaps she, too, is blonde. Perhaps she resembles Legolas: tall, fair, smooth-limbed. Éowyn wonders whether it pains the Elf to see the jewel ever at Aragorn's throat, a perpetual reminder that he is merely a replacement.

Aragorn never takes the jewel off, and she knows that now: never, not even when making love. Breathing in heavy, human gasps, thrusting into the Elf so hard it shook the dark-carved bed. She wonders whether Gimli knows, or if he would care; perhaps a stocky Dwarf knows not the ache of untouchable beauty. But surely even Gimli must see the flickering eyes, the glancing touches, the delicate dance of imminent mortality.

Éowyn pities Legolas, as much as she could pity one so beautiful and proud. In the shrouded, silent world of her uncle's court, she has learned to read eyes more clearly than words, and Aragorn's eyes, when he speaks of this Elf-maid, tell Éowyn that Aragorn would not give more than his body to any other.

She smiles wryly when she thinks upon her pettiness, asking about the necklace so precious to him. Her innocently pointed questions, inquiring about this _woman_, not a man, not an Elf. In hindsight, Eowyn believes that she said it largely to watch him flinch. After all, Aragorn didn't have to see the flicker of torchlight, far too late at night, while wandering the lanes of Edoras. He didn't have to glance into the window and stand, stricken, at the sight of blonde hair mingling with tangled brown locks, of pale skin yielding to sun-tanned flesh. He didn't have to hear the furious panting and half-grunts, to see the Elf's eyes silent and entranced. He didn't have to watch the Elf place his delicate fingers over the Man's forearm, gripping tightly in desperate possessiveness.

Aragorn's grip, too, is tight. Éowyn remembers when he first caught her and held her close. She had paid him no heed, a stranger with iron arms — but despite herself, she had breathed his scent, rich and harsh. He smelled of leather and blood, of salt and wind. He smelled like rust falling from the door of an open cage. When at last he let her go, she knew not whether she ran to her uncle or away from the terrifying newness. And still she wants him, the blood-rust-dirt smell a lingering aftertaste in the back of her throat. Still she traces his movements with her eyes, though she knows she is not alone in doing so.

In her mind, despite her efforts, the tarnished images linger. Their eyes, as they pulled apart from each other that night, did not meet. Legolas had gazed intently at Aragorn, and the Elf was beautiful even when sweaty and tousled, Éowyn remembers, beautiful and willfully vulnerable. And Aragorn saw it not: Aragorn, whose eyes only looked down at the jewel around his neck. His panting body was an embarrassment to his face, and the face looked away as though to forget.

Éowyn remembers Wormtongue, his fingers cold and withering against her shoulder, his eyes gazing at her with unconcealed desire, so blatant it was revolting. When she thinks of those grasping hands, she understands suddenly how Legolas could love Aragorn, knowing that his yearning glances are not reciprocated: Aragorn cloaks himself, he distances himself from the troubles of mere people, and in doing so he pulls himself to the realm of epic. To love Aragorn is to submit to a god, and in knowing this, Éowyn knows why she can love him so poignantly despite everything, despite Legolas, despite this Elf-maid. To love him is to be a part of something greater than herself.

She remembers the morning after that night, her frozen, shuddering breaths when his sword met hers and she beheld him, now clothed. So calm he was, and so long it took for her to regain herself. His eyes wore the same detached pity that they had shown with Legolas, and she longed then to kindle them with desire, to achieve what Legolas could not. Only now does she know that, with such an opponent, she has no hope of victory. After all, she knows herself how entrancing the smile of an Elf can be. She remembers, though her mind denies it, what it was to look upon the beauty of an immortal and despair.

***

She remembers the day, a half-score of years ago, when she ran up the high hill of Amon Tinnu, near to the Gap of Rohan, and beheld the coming of the Lady in the east. Bright were the Elven banners, red-tinted in the evening skies, and dark was the hair of the Lady in their midst. Éowyn had never seen a party so radiant, and she marvelled at the speed of their horses, smaller and fleeter of limb than the strong steeds of the Rohirrim.

Quickly she ran down the hill, whistling for Bramblewand, her dark mare. When the horse came galloping to her, she pulled herself up with practiced ease and rode toward the strangers, intensely conscious of her dishevelled hair and the dirt-streaked hem of her dress. After all, she knew, as her uncle had so often told her, that she was a daughter of nobles and the Lady of Rohan, the representative of her family's honour to all whom she met. The knowledge was a weight upon her as heavy and encompassing as the velvet robes she wore in Edoras.

Here, though, she could wear a lighter gown of pale blue muslin, and it streamed behind her as she rode to meet the party of travellers. As the two drew near, the company halted, and she could see them more clearly: the dark-haired Lady, who rode a delicate white stallion, and a half-dozen guards who encircled her protectively. Éowyn had never seen an Elf before, but she knew with certainty that these strangers were of that folk. Their dress and arms, let alone the radiance that shone from their eyes, bespoke their immortal origin.

At last, the riders stood face to face. The Lady dismounted with a fluid grace, and Éowyn followed her, bowing low and feeling very awkward. "My lady, I am Éowyn, daughter of Eomund, sister-daughter of King Théoden, and I welcome you to his realm."

The Lady smiled, and the brightness of her eyes was dazzling. "I accept your welcome in the name of my people. I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond Halfelven, Lord of Imladris, and I am journeying to him from the home of my grandmother, the Lady of the Golden Wood in the North."

Éowyn had heard of the Elves of the Golden Realm, and she knew the weight the name of that place carried. She looked closely at the stranger. The Elf-maid was lovelier than any human whom Éowyn had ever seen, a beauty that radiated from her soft blue eyes, eyes that seemed to glow gently in the darkening dusk. She was arrayed in a simple, light grey dress, wearing no ornament but a bright silver-white necklace with one dazzlingly clear jewel. Over her shoulders, she wore a cloak of thicker, heavier grey. The clothes and ornaments were made more cunningly than anything in Edoras. Éowyn took a deep breath. "My — my Lady Arwen, the fortress of Helm's Deep lies but a short distance from this place. If you wish for food or shelter, its hospitality is open to you — though the accommodations may seem rough by your people's standards."

"I thank you for your offer, Lady Éowyn, but my people have food enough, and we prefer the warm night sky of summer to a stone hall. Yet -" the Lady paused, looking closely at Éowyn, and smiled again. "Yet, I have heard much and seen little of the people of this land. If you wish to join my company for the evening, you will be welcome." Around her the faces of the blond-haired guards were impassive.

Despite herself, despite the mistrust that she knew had protected Rohan for centuries, Éowyn felt an impulsive desire to stay with the lovely Elf. Surely, she reasoned, the company was safe; Good seemed to radiate from them, to surround them in a glow brighter than the setting sun. And she herself had gone riding on long journeys before, though her brother often chided her upon her return. Éowyn drew a deep breath. "Lady Arwen, I would be honoured to — to join your people tonight."

"This is good news, and a gracious gift! Your gentle words belie your age, young Lady Éowyn." Arwen raised her eyes from the young woman to look at the guards around them. "We will camp in the shadow of this hill tonight, and the Lady of Rohan will be our honoured guest."

The other Elves nodded, swung lightly off their horses, and began to set up camp. Meanwhile, Arwen drew closer to Éowyn. "Would you walk with me a while? I would hear tales of this land and your people. I hear that you are great tamers of horses, and indeed your mare is lovely, strong and proud."

A smile spread across Éowyn's face at that. "Tamers of horses? No; I doubt I could tame Bramblewand, even if I wished to. She merely consents to bear me."

Arwen laughed then, like birdsong and bells. "A well-spoken answer. She is a noble horse. Tell me, then: do your steeds roam free, when they do not bear you, or do you keep them in shelters?"

Éowyn answered, and the two walked together until the sky deepened to a rich blue, bedecked with many stars. Mostly Arwen questioned Éowyn about the ways of the Rohirrim, seeming fascinated by their proud, rough warrior life and saying little of the Golden Realm.

As they returned to the camp, now set up in a defensive circle around a flickering fire, Arwen removed her cloak and gracefully seated Éowyn on a small, crimson cushion, then sat on a similar cushion to face the girl. One of the other Elves immediately brought plates of food, ripe summer fruits and soft-baked cakes, and followed them immediately with two goblets, accompanied by pitchers of water and sweet Elvish wine. Arwen smiled. "I fear our undiluted Elvish draughts may be too strong for your tastes, Lady Éowyn, but perhaps you will join me for this meal?"

As Arwen bent to pour the wine, then thin it with water, Éowyn could see the curve of her porcelain-smooth breasts underneath the filmy fabric of the dress, the glittering pendant dangling between the two globes. An odd knot twisted in her stomach, the strange buzzing thought that someone so ethereal ought to be above provoking such base reactions. Growing up in a court filled with men, men who were not above whispering about the king's foster-daughter, Éowyn had learned early the reactions that a woman's bosom could provoke — but now, with a half-painful ache, she finally understood exactly why the men saw it as beautiful.

Then, as soon as the thought had coalesced, the image was gone and Arwen had returned to sit, facing Éowyn. "I am glad, now, that we took this path, instead of the northern pass. My father bade me come this way, fearing that I, like my mother -" — and somewhere around there Éowyn has no memory of what Arwen said, too overwhelmed as her mind was with the sudden realization of her beauty: the white curves of face and neck and arm, the lips of bright red, the hair that cascaded in dark folds that glimmered like the night sky. Éowyn felt that odd knot again, and she wondered whether this was what the men of Edoras had seen in her, whether this Elf ever thought of doing the dirty, forbidden things that those men recounted over mugs of ale, laughing deep, rough laughs and forgetting about the thin girl always standing at the edge of the room. Éowyn looked at Arwen's fingers, thin and translucent-light, moving in gentle flutters, and she wondered how that fluttering would feel against her own skin, in her own secret places, and in thinking this she closed her eyes forcibly against thoughts so absolutely _wrong_ — "- brothers ride through the mountains, destroying bands of orcs in vengeance." Arwen had paused, her eyes looking searchingly at Éowyn. "I am sorry if my tale has disturbed you. Have you, too, suffered from the ravages of the orcs?"

"N- yes, my Lady." Éowyn regained her composure and lowered her eyes. "My father was killed by them, and my mother died of grief soon after. After that, my brother and I were taken to Edoras, to be raised as King Théoden's own children, for he had loved his sister, my mother, greatly."

"Then we are alike in sorrow." Arwen reached forward, cupping Éowyn's chin in her hand, and she gently raised the girl's face until their eyes met. "So young — so strong," she murmured. "Your uncle must love you greatly, as the image of his beloved sister."

Éowyn tried to suppress the shivers that were running through her. "Men say that I take more after my grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach. They called her Steelsheen for her strength and grace. One day, I wish to be worthy of her memory."

Arwen released Éowyn's face then, and Éowyn exhaled quietly, still shivering. Arwen spoke softly, smiling. "Though I have not my father's gift of foresight, Lady Éowyn, I believe that you will be worthy of her. But come — it grows late, and perhaps you grow weary. Are you finished with your supper?"

Looking down at the half-eaten fruits and cakes, Éowyn took one more sip of the wine, rich even when watered, and nodded. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Arwen. I confess, though, that I am used to riding Bramblewand long under starlight, and do not tire this early in the night."

"My people, too, are accustomed to long hours; we sleep not as your human kind does, but slip occasionally into a world of half-dreaming, our eyes still open." Arwen laughed lightly. "I have heard that humans find this strange, though our wakefulness has saved more than one company of Elves from an Orc surprise attack. But, come: I have asked you much about your people and your ways. Our kind does not often play host to mortals, and surely you have questions of your own?"

Immediately, Éowyn's eyes flickered to the sword that had been exposed when Arwen removed her cloak. "Your blade is beautiful. May I see it?"

"Certainly. Take care, though: the edge is sharper than those to which you may be accustomed." Arwen unsheathed the long, curved blade and carefully placed it in Éowyn's hands.

The young woman tested the sword lightly at first, feeling its weight and balance, then stepped back from Arwen and swished it through the air, hearing its bright song. "It's gorgeous," she grinned. "I've never seen an equal. So light, so strong, so elegant . . . You must be a great swordswoman, to wield such a weapon."

"Not as great as many of my kin, perhaps, but I learned bladework along with my embroidery in my father's house. The sword's name is Hadhafang, Throng-cleaver, and it was wielded by my great-grandmother, and my father after her. I did not know, though, that the daughters of Men also learned the use of weapons."

"Most do not. In my country, though, it is not unknown for the daughters of our nobles to receive instruction with their brothers. When my father died, I vowed that I would learn to defend myself and my kin from his fate."

Taking back the sword, Arwen's eyes gleamed brightly. "Then I am eager to see such devoted skill. Would you cross swords with me, young Lady of Rohan?"

For a moment, Éowyn's eyes saw a vision of Arwen glistening with sweat, gasping for breath, a glittering sword pinning her in one place. She shook the images away and smiled, the smile that the boys of Edoras had learned to fear. "I would be honored, my Lady."

The two stepped outside the camp, lit only by the moon and stars. The night-glow was bright enough, though, and Éowyn had fought before in worse. She unsheathed her sword and held it in a careful defensive posture. "Ready?" Arwen asked, and was met with a firm, silent nod. "Then, begin."

Immediately Éowyn pounced into action, moving with the careful speed that had won her almost every mock bout she entered. Before she was within a foot of Arwen's neck, though, she found her blade parried to one side with flawless ease. Another attack — another smooth parry. And another, and another, until Éowyn began to wonder what magic this Elf-maid had at her fingertips. By the time she noticed that Arwen had refrained from any attacks, Éowyn was panting from the effort, while Arwen looked as calm as she had at the beginning of the match. Finally, with one last frustrated effort, Éowyn feinted to Arwen's left, then followed it immediately with an impassioned thrust to the top right. Arwen's sword followed swiftly, but not carefully enough; one strong twist, and the sword went flying off into the grass, leaving Éowyn's sword pointed at Arwen's throat.

"Well done indeed, my Lady," Arwen smiled in approval — and, in a sudden flickering movement, Éowyn found Arwen pressed up behind her, a short dagger laid against the girl's throat. "But you must learn never to relax your guard, even once the bout is through."

Éowyn said nothing, her body quivering softly at the closeness of the Elf behind her. Though Arwen may have been unmoved, Éowyn's back was sweat-dampened, and the wetness softened the layers between those perfect curves and her own trembling skin. She felt terrified like never before, and inescapably trapped. Arwen's necklace dug into the back of her head, and she had to fight off a sudden urge to press herself forward against the dagger, that she might at least die in these ethereal arms.

And then, there was nothing but the cool breeze against her back, and Arwen facing her with a thoughtful expression on her face. "You desire me. I did not know that this was the way among your women."

In the warm, still night, Éowyn was suddenly very tired, and she felt as if she might cry. "No. For us it is unnatural. Forgive me. You are beautiful, yes, so beautiful I could cast myself upon you and be destroyed. I was wrong to come here."

Arwen's arms were around her then, holding her and stroking her back as if soothing a child, and Éowyn's tears were muffled in the Elf's soft bodice. "Hush now, little mortal one, hush . . . Come and rest tonight. In the morning you will return to your own people." The pity and tenderness in her voice stabbed Éowyn's heart.

Once the girl's sobbing had been exhausted, she pulled away from Arwen, avoiding the Elf's eyes. Silently Arwen retrieved her sword, and silently the two returned to the camp, where Arwen spread a light mat over the ground for Éowyn, several feet from her own bed. Éowyn lay down, facing away from the camp to gaze out over the broad plains, and somewhere in between thoughts of swords and wine and breasts and unclosing eyes, she fell asleep.

When Éowyn woke the next morning, the company was already mostly packed, and she suddenly understood that they would not have woken her. The thought rankled, and she rose quickly, blinking away sleepiness. Arwen stood beside one of the horses, methodically loading it with woven baskets of supplies, but as soon as her eyes met Éowyn's, she put down the basket she held and approached the young woman.

"My companions have tended to your mare. Do you need anything more?"

Éowyn almost laughed at the question, so simple and so impossible to answer. "I am content," she said quietly. "I hope — I hope we meet again, Lady Arwen."

"As do I, Éowyn of Rohan, though my home lies far from here. I thank you for your company. You have taught me much of your people and your race."

Éowyn bowed low. "And you have taught me of yours. Farewell."

Arwen waited before speaking, as if expecting something more to be said. Finally she replied, "Farewell. May the light of Elbereth shine upon you." Swiftly she turned to finish the preparations for departure, then mounted her horse and set off, without speaking another word to Éowyn. The young woman watched the horses move swiftly away, their backs lit by the morning sun.

"Goodbye, my Lady," she whispered to the company as their figures faded into the west. "I wish that . . ." — and there her voice choked on itself, and the words never came out, and the memory of that night was buried, buried from her brother and uncle, buried from her own conscious recollections.

"My Lady!" The exclamation startles Éowyn out of her thoughts, and she looks up to see the White Mountains close before them, with Helm's Deep nestled in their midst. She hears the exclamations of joy around her, and she takes a deep, relieved breath. At least these people, her people, are safe. Now she need only worry about the other men.

***

In little enough time, they return on horseback, filling the courtyard that she had just cleared of refugees. Éowyn's eyes dart from horse to horse, looking for one face, but she sees only the steely eyes of her uncle. "So few — so few of you have returned."

His voice, as he replies, gives her little comfort against the spreading chill in her heart. "Our people are safe, but at the cost of many lives — too many." Then he turns away from her, as though refusing to acknowledge the one question she wishes to ask.

At last she sees the Dwarf, and the grimness of his face is the final blow. "My Lady."

"Lord Aragorn," she asks, her voice tightening with fear, "- where is he?"

"He fell."

And her first instinct is to look about for Legolas, someone to share this stab of shattering emptiness, but her eyes find no one but her king, and she feels her breath bubbling up like a little bird's. Éowyn tells herself that she wept for her cousin and for her uncle, but that now, there is no time for tears, and if her eyes are wet, it comes from holding them open too long and too hard.

The only solution is, of course, to hold them open for longer, so long that the images of soldiers arming themselves and tangle-haired women comforting their children replace the images of a stubbled face lit by one white jewel. This, Éowyn tries to do, busying herself in organization and manual labor, thinking with her fingers that open doors and undo knots and pack provisions. She hurries around the fortress, finding things to do, avoiding ways to think.

Then she sees the Elf, working quietly in a corner of the armory, waxing his bowstring. His fingers, too, work nimbly, and they dance across the string with the same graceful, sliding flutters that they used to dance across Aragorn's body. Éowyn steps toward him, and immediately, he looks up, his eyes meeting hers silently. She speaks first, stiffly. "I am sorry for your loss. He was a great man."

"He was a king. I fear for our future without him." Legolas's voice is quiet and steady, his fingers rubbing the bowstring smoothly.

"Legolas, I -" she starts to say, faltering when she realizes that nothing she could say will — should — break their veil of privacy. She turns, a tightness in her brow of secrets kept, and begins to walk away, when she hears him speak in the same calm voice.

"I know that you saw us at Edoras, though I did not tell him. I am sorry that you suffered that injury."

"The fault was mine, for intruding," she says softly, without looking at him.

"Aragorn is gone, my Lady. Do not desecrate his memory with falsehoods. You loved him even as I loved him, and we share the same doom."

Éowyn stands, stricken, and all she can think to do is watch the Elf's fingers at their careful work. She listens to the muted clanging of weapons being gathered elsewhere in the armory. At last, feeling the sting of salt in her eyes, she turns and flees the room. She does not look back, and she does not wipe the wetness from her cheeks, until she stands at the top of the Keep and feels the cold spring wind whip the tears away.

That evening, Éowyn hears the muffled waves of whispering that ripple toward her, and her fingers begin to tremble. She turns and sees him: bloody, bedraggled, heartstoppingly beautiful. Legolas stands before him, half-smiling, and says something soft and fluid. She wonders how Aragorn speaks Elvish, and then she wonders whether Elvish is the language of all their secrets. "You look terrible," Legolas smiles, and Aragorn puts his arm on the Elf's shoulder and he pulls them close and they kiss and Éowyn's heart freezes.

She watches them kiss each other, not a brothers' kiss but a lovers' kiss, the Elf's lips sticking slightly from Aragorn's sweat as they pull apart, and for one moment of breathtaking emotion — joy, anger, despair, she isn't sure which — she is certain that now, now Legolas can have Aragorn's heart as well.

She watches Legolas pull the necklace out of some hidden pouch and place it in Aragorn's hand, then smile an odd, tight smile. She watches Aragorn murmur something soft, murmur it to the necklace he holds, not the Elf before him. She watches Legolas's face, and then she realizes something.

Éowyn realizes that this Elf-maid, this giver of jewels, possesses a gift more precious than any gem and more inviolable than a princess's maidenhood. Then, as she thinks this, she finally, painfully remembers where she has seen that jewel before.

And in that moment, with a sudden wide-eyed jolt, she knows that she would not take all the Elf-jewels in Arda to have what Legolas has.

  


Finis.

* * *

Author notes:

Many thanks to Lyn for excellent beta reading on short notice!

Feedback to stillcaenis@yahoo.com will be greatly appreciated (and rewarded with more stories!).

Éowyn's horse has a name derived from Old English and standardized, rather than an Elvish one, according to Tolkien's conventions. The original meaning is _Bremelwamb_, "blackberry belly," a name a child might give a dark horse.

The opening poem is an Old English translation, by David Salo, of Philippa Boyens's beautiful poem "The Missing." The English version is:

_She never watched the morning rising,  
Too busy with the day's first chores  
But oft she would watch the sun's fading  
As the cold of night crept across the moors  
And in that moment she felt the loss  
Of everything that had been missed  
So used to feeling the spirit sink  
She had not felt her own heart's wish_

This story is dedicated to the word "jewel."


End file.
